


Lifeless

by Bored_Panda



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-09-30 15:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17226764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bored_Panda/pseuds/Bored_Panda
Summary: Sherlock's alive but John can't have him. Not yet, not until he can fix him.





	1. Chapter 1

Everyone carefully avoided John’s eyes as he frantically made his way through the hospital. It had only been hours ago that he’d been informed and as soon as the knowledge was wormed through the shock, the doctor had ignored packing, choosing the grab his passport and wallet. Mycroft already had a ticket booked for him. Despite sitting in first-class, John hadn’t relaxed the slightest. Bubbling with a mix of relief, disbelief and absolute rage. As soon as the plane had landed, John had unbuckled his seatbelt, checked his pockets for the only two things he’d taken, and had been the first out the door.

 

The people he passed by were nothing, faceless while John could really only see one thing. His love’s lifeless eyes. The blood, the  _ flailing _ . As if Sherlock had been some huge, desperate bird, limbs moving wildly where wings were meant to be. He took a deep breath before walking up to the receptionists’ in a hurry, wasting no more time and ignoring the way the woman cast her eyes away as she realized who John was here for. The doctor practically ran through the building, stopping in front of room 347.  The nurses and doctors kept to themselves, forcing their gaze away when John happened to catch them.

 

The door was pushed open by steady hand, even under the pressure. Mycroft— who sat in the corner of the room— barely even nodded at him, choosing to stare at his shoes instead, his umbrella twirling with the tip of it on the ground. John, on the other hand, was frozen, staring at the familiar figure on the bed. "Sher-- " John felt anger course through him, the steady hum of the heartbeat only thrumming it on. "How—" He exhaled noisily before practically running at the man, taking in his sharp features and closed eyes. " You bastard! I lived two years—  _ dead _ after you died, and you can’t even look at me?” He wanted to reach out, to slap him. And he did. The detective barely reacted, his body only jolting, though his heart rate was much higher and there were small tears in the corner of his eyes. Of his beautiful eyes that he still didn’t open.

 

John felt shock course through him, numb as he felt Mycroft’s arms wrap behind him and hold him down. "There’s something wrong," he tried to say. There was something horribly wrong, terribly wrong and John did not know  _ what _ . He felt powerless, annoyance running through him. Drugs. Of course. The bastard had overdosed into a coma. Something horrid gripped at the base of John’s heart, digging its finger into the soft organ and crushing it. With a defined stillness, the doctor relaxed, letting Mycroft hold him. “I’m going to kill him.”

 

“John, it’s not what you belie--” John flinched away from the man, seconds from ripping his umbrella out of his hands running it right through his vulnerable midsection. “Then what is it?! What did-- What is this?! It has to be a lie… where’s my Sherlock?” His rage had quieted into some sort of begging, mixed in with an intense denial. “What’s he done, Mycroft? What  _ is _ this?” Uncharacteristically, the government official wrapped his arms around the doctor, holding him tightly, though awkwardly, to himself. “Paralyzed. His spinal cord was affected during his… time away.” John knew those words. He knew what they meant. Eons ago, he had been forced to utter the same ones. He glanced at Sherlock, looking at his lifeless form, his own handprint still strong on the man’s cheek. He turned back, hiding himself in Mycroft’s coat, sobbing his pain while Mycroft simply held him, pressing his lips to the top of John’s head.

 

It felt as if ages had passed, but eventually, the two separated, John collapsing into a bedside chair while Mycroft took his original seat in the corner of the room. In the quiet, the doctor sniffled, eyes red and raw while his chest ached in sadness and longing. He took his flatmate’s hand, clutching the warm thing tightly as he attempted to control the emotions he was faced with. “I’m sorry, if i’d just told you-- if only I had said something or  _ known  _ and you hadn’t  _ jumped--  _ Sherlock, i’m so sorry.” He traced one finger over a pale extension of Sherlock’s skin, right below his cheekbones as he tried to erase the slap away. He felt another tear slip out of his eye before he wiped it away, feeling numbness set in once more. This was his reality, his love wasn’t dead, but in fact, he was much too out of reach. John rested his head on the bed, still holding Sherlock’s hand before he pressed a kiss to the knuckles of it. “Come back to me, please. I’ll make it up to you. We can move away to some nice, quiet town, just the two of us against the world with an occasional murder and millions of cold cases, yeah? And I won’t even chide you to buy the milk anymore.” With no more words left to say, John stayed, his heart beating slowly and uselessly while Sherlock’s picked up pace.

  
“Dr Watson. Visiting hours are over, now.” John looked up from where his head had rested on the bed, eyes wide as Mycroft spoke. “He’s my boyfriend, I can’t just, Mycroft, i’ve only just seen him after  _ two years _ .” The government official nodded to himself before standing, “Yes, but the same rules apply to you, do they not? I have your living quarters set up, John. If you’ll follow me…” John held Sherlock’s hand tighter, another tear slipping past his eye as he looked down at Sherlock. “Please. Love, before I go, just tell me you love me.” When John received no response at all, a small sob made its way past his lips. “Alright, sweetheart, i’ve got to go now.” With his heart twisted in pain, the doctor leant forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his Sherlock’s mouth. He took off his coat, wrapping it around the unresponsive man. “I’ll be back tomorrow. And the day after that.” John silently followed Mycroft out of the room. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Instead of everyone’s eyes avoiding him, they looked him straight in the eyes. Two weeks gone, the pain of losing his boyfriend hadn’t lessened, but he’d become friends with the staff of the hospital, which really now included himself. He stopped in, every day, stayed every night--Mycroft managing to set up work for him there as Sherlock’s head doctor. It was good. In this way, he could take care over Sherlock without needing an excuse. The doctor had handed over his account to Mycroft, letting the man take care of his salary and expenses. Nothing was worth John’s thoughts, nothing but Sherlock Holmes. He checked over his vitals, over his heart and breath, pressure and response. The detective was alive. But he was not. And Doctor John Watson felt the same way.

 

There was a schedule. Routine check with a good morning and a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s lips. There was telling the paralyzed man about John’s day, describing the tiniest of details so the detective could see the scene in his mind’s eye. And then there were murders, interesting ones, puzzles and things that puzzled. Of course, John thought it was cruel to give Sherlock cases when the man couldn’t rant, shout, scream answers or frustrations, but he clung onto every sense of their past lives that he had. He brought in scents, flowers, honey things so that Sherlock wouldn’t forget. And sounds. It was recordings, not of Sherlock’s own playing, but of John’s. The doctor had learnt the fiddle as a young boy, forgotten over years of adolescence, but apparently, his fingers hadn’t forgotten notes and his ears hadn’t forgotten tune. It was terrible. It was horrible. But he did it anyways, laughing at himself in Sherlock’s room, imagining that the detective was laughing with him.

 

And then the hours were filled with walks. Sherlock was in love with London, so how could it be that John would never show it to him? No. Absolutely not. So, everyday, after breakfast and stories and music and jokes, John helped his boyfriend into his silk shirt and his black trousers. He sat the man in a wheelchair, in front of a mirror, talking nonsense to the paralyzed detective as he perfected still-soft curls, dabbing some product into them. Sherlock had always loved dressing up and makeup before, showing off bright colours painted perfectly on his face with rapid-fire deductions twisting out of his mouth. And even now, as John would apply blush, hints of highlighter onto pale skin and streak colours of the setting sun over his eyelids, there was something about the detective that seemed to relax and take comfort in it.

 

With the man prettied up, a different art on his face every day, put there by his boyfriend’s tremor-gone hand, the two would make their way out into the world. They were recluse, of course, sticking to quiet places with minimum people. Some people looked, the rest stared, but Sherlock kept his head straight, looking right in front of him--just as John had positioned it to be-- and the doctor did the same, all while muttering silly, stupid deductions that Sherlock would’ve looked at John with a smile for if he could.

Then a walk back to the hospital, John still pushing the wheelchair and Sherlock’s body jolting in a rumbly this way and that as the contraption travelled over London’s worn sidewalks.

 

Tea. Soft scones carefully pushed between lips that were still a deep aubergine colour. A small swallow after some time from Sherlock, who looked at John with glazed-over, cerulean eyes. The doctor managed a few sips of tea between the detective’s lips before something in the air changed and Sherlock had decided that it was enough. The doctor kissed the detective’s forehead, picking him up and out of the wheelchair and setting him on the bed, his back elevated so he could still see John if the doctor stood directly in front of him. He was helped out of his clothes, changed into soft pajama pants and a cotton shirt, worn inside out before being topped off with his dressing gown. With the same care, John wiped off the man’s makeup, adding some lip balm to his deadened boyfriend’s chapped-with-cold lips before smiling brightly at him.

 

Another check, Sherlock all connected to the machines, which were made sure to be running smoothly, properly accounting each aspect of the detective’s internal, physical health. And once they were be made to be working, John made sure Sherlock was still working. And after that, he checked his own pulse. Every day. He checked his own pulse right after checking Sherlock’s. If it was to remind himself that they were both alive or if it was to remind himself that this wasn’t some nightmare, John wasn’t sure.

 

But there was something different about today. Today, John had brought in a violin with him. He stood at the edge of the bed, Sherlock’s head positioned to look directly at him. The doctor shrugged off his coat, hung it up before straightening his jumper. Then, he walked over to a hidden corner of the room and pulled out an old instrument which held no comparison nor resemblance to Sherlock’s Stradivarius. He positioned the old thing under his chin, made sure of the tuning and took the bow in his left hand, setting it over the strings.

 

There was quiet in the room, the only thing making sound was Sherlock’s heartbeat--which was projected by a machine, but even that faded into a dull background sound after it had set the timing. John dragged a note out, wincing lightly before he tried again, holding confidence this time. This was for Sherlock, a man who was paralyzed, in fear, in darkness-- and some silly nervousness in front of his boyfriend wasn’t going to stop John from showing the detective the same vulnerability.

 

John played the song, a quiet tune to not disturb the other patients, but loud enough with emotion to show Sherlock words that were not spoken. The music danced with the doctor as he swayed lightly, finally relaxing and succumbing to it, his blue eyes trained on Sherlock’s face for any twitch of recognition. The music had been one that Sherlock had put together and thought it was being played quite terribly, right now, John couldn’t help the slight disappointment that held the tiniest layer over his eyes. The song crescendoed, reaching an end, only holding a slight one or two squeaks from the not-so-great violin player. And finally, the volume surged back down, quiet, low as it had been in the beginning, to a point where it was barely audible. And just like that, it faded into nothing.

 

The doctor relaxed his arm, holding the instrument and its bow to his side, slightly breathless and slightly panting before he let a slow grin brighten his face. He asked the unresponsive man how it was, and when he got no answer, John forced away the sadness that threatened to consume and bowed with dramatical movement to make the atmosphere silly and happy again. He blew a kiss to Sherlock and winked, stating that he’d be here all night for another show-- only if requested, though.

 

And with that, he packed the old instrument back up and crawled into the narrow hospital bed by Sherlock, taking out his laptop from his bag and setting it on the paralyzed man’s lap. They were back to their schedule again. Alternating nights, John threw something on his laptop--one day it was Sherlock’s favourite and another it was John’s. Tonight, they were watching a bond movie. The doctor wrapped his arm around his Sherlock’s shoulders, tugging the torpefied man closer to himself, letting the detective’s head rest limply on the John’s shoulder.

 

As he booted the laptop up with one hand wrapped around Sherlock, another working the laptop’s keys, John thought he saw something in the reflection of the device’s screen. Sherlock’s lips, tugged up in one corner with a certain awkwardness of unused muscles. It wasn’t until John turned, repositioning them so he could look straight at the man, that he realized that it was no trick of any light.

 

Sherlock’s eyes were focused, usually-glazed-over cerulean eyes  _ looked _ at John. And there, right at the edge where the upper and lower lips met, was a memory of a smile that was working its hardest to break through layers of numb.

 

John found himself finding hope that he hadn't realized he'd lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For PaulineHolmes02!!
> 
> Thank you, Pauline, for putting up with me for literally /months/. I'm sooo sorry I didn't get this to you earlier, I've been stupidly busy.
> 
> I hope you like it! Point out any mistakes (especially since the time's almost 2am and I'm prone to terrible typing to times likes this.)

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is really just the first chapter and I haven't even read it over yet. Point out any mistakes or suggestions. ^^


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